Broken Road
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Where Mr and Mrs Carson are retired. [Lyrics by Rascall Flatts' Bless the Broken Road.']
1. Part One

**_I set out on a narrow way many years ago_**

She has a book open in her lap when he comes in that first evening, has not yet read a single word of it when her husband folds back the blanket, settles sedulously beside her in their new bed.

"What are you reading?"

Elsie turns the page with a committed hand. "It's a book of sonnets."

"Ah." He nods.

She nods at him in turn, continues to stare at the print.

And she is blushing despite herself, biting down hard on her bottom lip; he is twiddling his thumbs on his stomach, looking carefully down at the blanket.

Decidedly, she is waiting, wondering if he might make some sort of advance, and possibly, quite possibly, she is hoping that he will.

"Are they nice?" he asks then, a quiet rumble. "The sonnets, I mean."

Elsie smiles down at the page, shakes her head.

She almost laughs; at herself, at him, at the state of them on their wedding night. "Yes, Mr Carson. They're very nice."

"Good, good."

He clears his throat.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She turns.

"I wonder — that is, I hope —"

He inhales deeply, she does.

"Mrs Hughes, may I hold your hand?"

Elsie looks up at her new husband, her oldest friend, looks at him in surprise.

And she smiles then, after a moment, smiles with a full and brimming heart and shifts closer to him, close enough that their shoulders are touching and reaches to take his large warm hand in hers, brings it gently to rest on top of her book.

"Mr Carson, I've told you. You can always hold my hand."

**_Hoping I would find true love along the broken road_**

He wakes up to the wafting smell of bacon, of eggs and the whistle of a kettle downstairs. The room is already lit up when he opens his eyes, finds himself alone in that large bed; sunlight is pouring in, streaming through the windows as he shrugs on his robe, pads softly down the steps in stocking feet.

"You've made breakfast." This is what he says to his wife when he finds her that first morning.

There is a tone of wonder there to be sure, because he is captivated by her, absolutely enchanted in discovering her in their little kitchen, in the sway of her dressing gown round her ankles and the delicate curve of her wrist as she turns over the rashers of meat.

She turns to where he stands at the doorway, smiles at him warmly, amusedly. "As you see."

And they eat breakfast together with easy affinity, her to his right at their square table. She pours his tea, stirs in the milk, the sugar; he opens her toaster with careful fingers, puts two slices onto her plate.

They talk of this and that, of not much at all, he reads aloud news of the wretched labour government running again; she laughs at him, shakes her head, considers what to cook for their dinner.

"I thought I might try a veal and egg pie," she muses. "I know it's one of your favourites."

"It is, at that."

She is worrying her bottom lip. "I'm no Mrs Patmore of course, but –"

"No, indeed," he says and folds the paper into four, places it onto the table. Looks at her squarely in the eye. "You're Mrs Carson."

And he smiles at her with such fondness that she begins to blush.

**_But I got lost a time or two_**

They are getting ready to leave, Elsie is pinning her hat to her head in the mirror, is just about to call when he comes in, scarf in tow, extending his hand towards her.

"Before we go," he says, and she looks down to see what he is holding, then at him in surprise, protest.

"Five pounds, Mr Carson? Surely—"

He raises his free hand, stops her. "I thought we might dip in a little, treat ourselves."

Her lips press together at his grin. "This is hardly a honeymoon, going to Ripon to run some errands."

"No, perhaps not, but there's no harm in celebrating."

He proffers the money again and she takes it with a roll of her eyes, puts it in her handbag, allows him to help her into her coat.

He is the most attentive husband it would seem, careful, so careful that she always has some money on hand, and that she never feels sustained by him, dependent — had given her the key to their till the very week they were engaged, said to her that it only made sense that she keep it on her chatelaine.

Oh, certainly he expects dinner prompt on the table, and her to pour his tea, but then which man didn't? And anyway, she enjoys it, looking after him. She's been doing it for years now, after all.

But for all his skills, his talents in dressing a table, of putting on a good show, his graceful hands and quick mind, it has come as a great surprise to her, and no mistake, the very last thing she expected that he would excel at, but there it is.

"What is it?" he asks.

Elsie flinches, realises she has been staring.

Smilingly then, laughing quietly, she shakes her head, tucks her hand at his elbow and pulls him out the door.

**_Wiped my brow and kept pushing through_**

The cufflink falls with an irritating tinkle onto the ground, and Charles swears under his breath, squints and fumbles in the dark in a vain attempt to spot it.

"Such language, Mr Carson."

He scrambles, straightens up immediately. "I do beg your pardon, Mrs Hughes."

He looks sheepishly from under his brows. "I suppose I'm not in the habit of dressing and undressing myself, anymore."

She waves him off with a smile. "Here, let me."

And his mouth is dry as his wife steps nearer to him, as she makes quick work of his other sleeve and stands on her toes before he can protest, stretches to unknot his tie, to pull loose the length of it.

And how pretty she is, he thinks, standing in front of him in her nightdress, with her hair worn in a braid, how soft and everything womanly, how gently she cares for him.

He is staring now, knows he is, he is watching her eyes and her lips and the rises and fall of her chest, and he thinks maybe that he wants to kiss her and –

"There."

She has found the missing clasp from the ground, holds it up for him between her thumb and forefinger and Charles swallows heavily, takes it from her.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

**_I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you_**

Then one evening after dinner, almost one week into retired life, she shows him her shopping list, says she's off to the market tomorrow, early, and that she'd try to be back before he wakes up.

Only Charles doesn't sleep that night at all, tosses and turns restlessly and watches her gentle breathing beside him, instead.

Certainly, there is no need for him to be upset, be as listless as he is. Certainly, it would be their first time apart since they married but that does not excuse his childishness at this moment, the petulant voice inside him saying, 'I don't want you to go.'

And when she does wake, he sits against the headboard with heavy eyelids, watches blearily as she bustles in and out of the room, dresses herself for the day.

"I'm just off."

She is standing at his bedside now, in her coat and hat and gloves, and she speaks quietly to him, touches a gentle hand to his shoulder to get his attention.

He mutters in frustration, pushes the covers off even after she insists that he go back to sleep, that she only wanted to remind him where she'd be.

Still, he follows her down the stairs, grousing sleepily, unintelligibly, and when she's collected her basket and is ready to say goodbye, he surprises them both by bending down, pressing a sleepy kiss to her cheek.

"Just come home soon," he grumbles.


	2. Part Two

**_Every long lost dream led me to where you are_**

How familiar it is, how different, to sit with him in the evenings this way, leant against each other by the fire after two glasses of sherry each and no one to knock at their door.

Elsie is knitting for the first time since the war, plans to make all manner of tiny clothes for Anna's little one, due any day now while her husband is sat beside her on the sofa, his arm against hers, reading — Dickens again, she's sure.

His eyes are narrowed, crinkled at the corners as he peers down at the page, and Elsie grins at him, finds that she cannot resist.

"Are you having trouble with your eyes?" she teases. "There's no shame in it, if you are."

He looks up swiftly. "Certainly not!"

Her own eyes are twinkling with mischief then, when she nods, pretends to believe him. "Well, _I _don't mind admitting that I am."

"Mrs Hughes," he says. "There is nothing wrong with my eyesight and that's all there is to it."

She laughs, a light chiming sound, nods again compliantly.

And the heart of the matter is simple, is that she dotes on him, simply adores him and there is nothing for it; his profile lit in soft amber and that silver lock of hair which curls onto his forehead, adores the way he is huffing now, indignant.

"I'll say goodnight," she tells him, sweetly now, placating.

And he is still sulking, in a bate when she thinks maybe she could, that he wouldn't mind, not after the other morning, and that she wants to, badly, and perhaps she will after all —

Decidedly then, Elsie sets aside her knitting and shifts closer to him on the sofa. Brings his face down with one hand against his cheek, and brushes soft lips to the side of his face, to the bristles of his evening whiskers.

Pulls back quickly then, smiles at him. "Goodnight, Mr Carson."

And what she doesn't see when she gets up, as she heads upstairs to change into her nightclothes, what she doesn't know is that he has raised his hand to where she'd kissed him.

That his eyes are now filled with tears.

**_Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars_**

Hot and perspiring, his handkerchief pressed to his neck, Charles has just come in from the gardens, has been overseeing the young lad he's put to work on his first day.

He'd terrified the boy, according to his wife, when he'd told him in a voice that brooked no argument that Mrs Carson wanted a rose bush grown before the summer, became every inch the Butler when he said that a rose bush she would have.

She is pottering around in the parlour; he can hear rattling and scraping from inside, the sound of wood against wood as she arranges things, rearranges them to her satisfaction.

She calls him from the other room. "Mr Carson?"

He is busy unrolling his sleeves, redoing his cuffs, and he follows the sound of her voice distractedly. "Hm?"

"What's happened to the picture that was in here? The one of Miss Neale?"

He looks up at that. "I must've put it in a box somewhere."

"I don't think I came across it."

Charles touches the corner of the frame, shrugs. "We might get a picture taken and put it in here."

She opens her mouth, closes it again, presses her lips together. "You didn't need to do that, Mr Carson. Really. I gave it to you as a reminder."

He takes the empty frame from her then, and sets it down on the table. Touches her cheek with the back of his hand softly, fleetingly.

"Perhaps I no longer need reminding."

**_Pointing me on my way into your loving arms_**

And one crisp evening, Charles comes home from Ripon hungry and worn out, eager to see her after a long day at village counsel.

Doesn't even remove his hat then, or coat when he shuts the door; only pockets his gloves, loosens the knot of his tie and looks in on her in the kitchen.

Leans against the doorframe there, and smiles tiredly at his lovely wife.

She has not heard him come in over the general din from the oven, the stove, is still skimming through her recipe book as the stew comes to a boil, and Charles looks on appreciatively at her, is quietly rejuvenated in her presence.

By her form bent over the counter, and the way her new reading glasses are just slightly too large for her face, how they keep sliding down her nose and she has to push them up again.

And perhaps especially by the treacle tart cooling on the table.

Slowly then, Charles comes up behind her, and reaches hopeful fingers over her shoulder.

Immediately earns himself a sharp slap on the wrist.

She whips around to greet him, points a wooden spoon at his nose.

"That," she says. "Is for dessert."

He looks down with wide, innocent eyes. "I only wanted a taste, Mrs Carson."

"Oh, it's Mrs Carson now, is it? I see." She sniffs. "Well that is a step up, I suppose."

"Just one slice," he bargains, and watches as the corners of her lips turn upward.

As she rolls her eyes at him.

Thinks now that she doesn't mean it, knows that she often means something much sweeter than she says.

"_Please, _Mrs Carson."

He takes a step closer to her; she purses her lips. "Oh, go on then."

Delightedly, Charles helps himself to two slices, licks the sugar off the pad of his thumb.

"Daft man," she says then, with a smile.

And he's certain she doesn't mean that either.

**_This much I know is true,  
>That God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you<em>**

And it is her birthday when he informs her that he has bought a present.

Had taken her completely by surprise this morning when he'd come down, fully dressed for breakfast and clutching a wooden box to his chest.

To show his appreciation, he'd said; a special occasion, he'd called it.

Exorbitantly transparent as he is, Elsie had still not expected this, cannot fathom what it is he was thinking as she peels away the soft crepe paper now, traces her fingers along the crevices which edge the box, those fine carvings of fruits, of flowers.

And she is staring then, as she lifts the lid lined with blue velvet, at the gold chain resting inside, pebbled with sapphires; as he stares at her, waits for her verdict, for his own validation with baited breath.

Her hand comes to sit on her chest.

"Mr Carson, this is —" She stops, stumbles. "I can't accept this."

Beside her, she can feel him take a deep breath. "You don't like it."

Elsie looks up at him quickly, at his face now filled with hurt and immediately shakes her head.

"No," she says, firmly. "No, it isn't that."

His brow furrows. "I've offended you."

And she would laugh now if her eyes were not pooling with tears, would make an eloquent speech or chaffing remark if she could manage it, set his mind at ease this moment if she were able.

But words of the heart have never come simply to her and he has left her speechless after all, and so she looks around the room with silver tracks running down her cheeks, gestures helplessly, emphatically.

"This is too much," she says.

Her voice is hoarse and cracked around the corners, and she is looking away from him, down at their shoes.

"You've given me so much already — this house, this _life_."

Unexpected, heavy words, hampered with emotion, grief and gratitude, heavier than she thought she owned.

"You've taken such care of me."

And tears now, suddenly; unforeseen sobs that are wracking through her body, heaving her shoulders as she reaches for him, pulls him close.

This is how she finds herself folded in her husband's embrace for the first time, with her arms wrapped around his big frame and her face pressed into starched cotton, the lapels of his vest.

This is the first brick that falls, crumbles, as he tucks her under his chin, hugs her to him.

"Oh, my dear," he breathes. "Oh, my dearest darling."


	3. Part Three

_Thank you so much everyone - I am completely floored by the receiving of this story, and so, so grateful. I would like to respond to all of you individually, but in the mean time, please accept my general and eternal thanks!_

* * *

><p><strong><em>I think about the years I spent just passing through<em>**

One late afternoon, Elsie lets herself in through the kitchen door, tucks away her basket and goes in search of her husband.

Finds him in the sitting room after a moment, writing at the desk. He is answering his letters and wearing her spectacles.

Elsie grins at him, the back of his head. "Careful," she says. "Or you'll stretch the frames."

And if she gets a particular pleasure then, from the way he jumps out of his seat; if she enjoys it much more than she should as he sets down the glasses with an undignified clatter, it does not show in her expression.

"You startled me!" he proclaims.

With a dramatic sigh, he walks over to her as he has made a habit of doing, and raises his arm just so, touches a light hand to her waist, the small of her back.

It isn't an embrace exactly, but it almost is when she pats his chest affectionately, cranes her neck to smile at him.

"I'm glad to see you," she admits.

She has barely been home after all, feels badly for leaving him to his own devices these past few days but she has just been so caught up with Anna, the little one being due.

Feels her face becoming warm then, as he looks down at her with tender eyes, his brow raised almost playfully.

"Don't tell me you've missed me."

Elsie smiles surprisedly, delightedly at his teasing tone.

"I have, Mr Carson." Her voice is soft and lilting in a way she hardly recognises, breathless now. "Very much."

Her hand is still on his chest when his eyes flicker to her lips, when she moves just slightly to lean in, can hear a distinct pulsing in her ears and then —

There is a loud knock at the door, a frantic beating against the wood.

They spring apart just as a panicked Mr Bates darts in, the man as white as a sheet.

Elsie holds her breath.

"I think," he says, and stops, shakes his head. His hand is trembling against his cane. "I think the baby is coming."

And then there is only a moment of confusion, one short minute of scuffle, the sound of jingling keys and the rustle of fabric, before they are outside, before the door slams shut behind them.

**_I'd like to have the time I've lost and give it back to you_**

Charles is wiping dusty hands into his handkerchief, is still catching his breath when he climbs the stairs of the Batses' cottage.

Has been lending a hand to Mr Bates with the furniture, carrying the new cot; had thought to give the ladies some time to themselves before collecting his wife.

And through the open door now, he can hear snippets of their conversation, can see her standing by the bed where Anna sits in her nightgown.

She is holding the baby in her arms and rocking him carefully, is lit from behind in streaming daylight.

"We were thinking about calling him Billy," Anna tells her. "After William," she says.

Charles pauses at the top of the stairs and watches how his wife smiles down at them; at mother, at son. "That's a lovely thought, dear."

He can't help but stare at her, is enraptured by that unguarded smile on her lips. Does not know why he is surprised exactly, jarred by the sweet sight before him.

She has been here every day this week after all, held Anna's hand in the hospital room, had promised not to let go. And although she might not say, it is clear that she is fond of the lad, what with his squashed up face and pink nose, that little tuft of blond hair; that she is dreadfully fond of him already.

The thought makes him uneasy somehow, to see her this way, warm and soft and nurturing, makes his insides turn uncomfortably with a feeling that Charles cannot, will not name.

"Actually," Anna keeps on. "Mr Bates and I were hoping that you and Mr Carson would be his godparents."

He swallows heavily.

"As you know, we've neither of us any family left, and I think it would be nice for our son to have more than just us. To have someone he can call his gran and granddad, I suppose. If you've no objections, that is, Mrs Carson."

She doesn't of course, is looking brightly at the younger woman now, dazzlingly, with shining eyes.

"I'd be honoured, Anna," she tells her. "I'll have to speak to Mr Carson, of course, but certainly, I've no objections."

She smiles down then, at son, and at mother.

**_But you just smile and take my hand_**

"Oh, go on with ye!"

Elsie hands him a plate, and he wipes it thoroughly, vigorously before putting it in the stack with the others.

He is bristling, noticeably disgruntled by this turn of conversation. Has been in a right mood since they'd returned from the Batses' cottage; all week, if she thought on it properly.

"It isn't appropriate," he stresses. "Surely you must see that."

She rolls her eyes and hands him a glass next, in exasperation. "I don't agree. There is nothing improper in having grandparents."

And watches then, as her husband becomes flustered, sees the transformation of him from man into Butler before her very eyes.

His shoulders are tensed when he takes the glass from her, takes to rubbing at it as though he were polishing the silver.

His voice is rising steadily. "But we're not though, are we?"

Elsie shuts off the tap, turns to him. "I know that."

"Well then!"

He looks away. Interests himself in sorting the cutlery, meticulously begins to organise them in the drawer, and she is becoming increasingly frustrated with him, his obstinance.

There is a wound there, she knows, tender and raw and aching in him, and Elsie has her suspicions as to what it might, had felt his presence keenly behind the door that morning. And now he is retreating from her; his walls are built high and she cannot reach him.

"But surely —"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," he says.

Raises the tea towel, his hand with finality. "I just don't think it does us any good to be sentimental. And I thought that you of all people would know that."

Oh and it hurts to hear the words, she'll not deny it, it is a jagged and sharp thing to be taken back some years and feel as though nothing has changed between them, like they have not yet moved past this.

For him as well, she thinks, because he is looking down at her now with wide, stricken eyes, his lips turned down at the corners.

Elsie folds her hands in front of her.

"I see," she says. "Well then. That's all there is to it."

And she walks out of the kitchen with a heavy heart, without his calling out to stop her.

**_You've been there, you understand_**

It is late when he happens upon her again, with leaden steps that Charles heads upstairs that evening and finds the bedroom empty, dim and cold without a fire made up, makes his way down again.

She is in the laundry, he finds, the little room behind the kitchen, pressing out his shirt with a smoothing iron. Her movements are small and subdued, and there is a redness under her eyes, a slight swelling that eats away at him, cuts into his heart.

His frame casts a dark shadow over her as he stands there, hemming, hawing; has yet to find the words she deserves to hear.

"You shouldn't be doing that," is what he says, instead. His voice is soft, apologetic. "The maid is coming in, tomorrow."

She doesn't look up from her task, merely folds the shirt over the board, shrugs in his direction. "I wanted to."

Charles clears his throat, is fidgeting with his vest, tugging at it with small, compulsive movements. "I thought I'd sleep in the spare room tonight. I wouldn't want to impose."

"Don't be foolish." Her answer is immediate and he is surprised, to say the least.

And stupidly then, foolishly, he feels his eyes welling with tears. "You don't... regret marrying me, then?"

Hard pangs of regret in his chest, questions of another life and another way had made him lash out at her, pushed her away when he'd wanted her closest, and he has been so afraid, had thought he'd ruined everything between them.

Does not know how to say that he is sorry, bitterly so, cannot tell her that the image of her holding the bairn is burned into his memory, never to be forgotten; knows nothing except the blacks and whites of his livery, the exacting measure between knives and plates and glasses.

"Mr Carson," she sighs, and she does place the iron down now, turn to him. "We've survived much worse than this, you and I."

And there are tears now, so many tears, falling onto his cheeks and he cannot catch them, couldn't stop them even if he tried to.

Regrets he cannot name, they are all laid before her and suddenly, he is shaking with it, does the only thing that he can and clasps her small hand in his, brings it to his chest.

Strokes gently against those fair fingers there, laid over his heart. "Truly?"

"Oh, my darling man." And then she is holding his face in her hands, brushing away the tears, speaks with conviction now, with meaning.

"Charles Carson. I could never, ever regret marrying you."

**_It's all part of a grander plan that is coming true_**

And he is different after that one dismal night; Elsie sees a change in him.

Does not mistake him to be an altered man of course, and nor would she want him to be — knows there are things they have not spoken of, that they still need to — but when the Batses are over for dinner that day, when they are sitting together in the parlour, laughing, with little Billy asleep in his pram, she feels the difference acutely.

He is talking animatedly with Mr Bates about politics, about the cricket match next month, is sat beside Anna and fussing over her, pouring her wine, refuses to let her lift a finger.

And when the baby begins to fuss, he touches her arm gently, says that she deserves a break and he would like to, if she didn't mind.

How beautiful he is there, Elsie thinks, strong and large and gentle as he holds the bairn close, what a wonderful father he would have made.

"There now, little chap," he croons. "What's the matter, hm? Would you like to chat with your granddad about it?"

Her heart is sent leaping in her chest.

And afterward, after they'd seen them off at the door and he is helping her collect the plates, the glasses, Elsie wipes her hands decidedly and pounds into the dining room.

Ignores his exclamations then, those protests of confusion and she pulls him down by the tie, pushes demanding lips against his, kisses her husband for the first time fiercely there, in warm firelight, kisses him in earnest.


End file.
